Great Heroic Spirit

Kryuchkov and Pugo had never been as busy as they were in April. To protect this fragile new leadership and to stage a grand military parade, the two men meticulously inspected every possible threat around Red Square, inside and out. For most Soviet citizens, this parade might have seemed ordinary—just another routine display of military might. But for Yanaev, its significance was as profound as the legendary November 7, 1941 parade on Red Square.

Yanaev stood before the mirror, adjusting his suit nervously. This would be his first public appearance before the leaders of the remaining socialist countries. Among the guests were Cuba's Castro, Vietnam's General Secretary Do Muoi, representatives from Mongolia, Czechoslovakia's Jan Strasky, North Korea's leader, and delegations from neighboring southern nations. Once a mighty socialist bloc, the camp had crumbled under Gorbachev's ill-fated reforms, leaving only six countries clinging to survival amid the storm.

Yanaev's reflection looked weary and worn. He inhaled deeply, uncertain how to face his former allies. The mistakes of a foolish leader had shattered the union that once rivaled the West. The Soviet Union, now diminished, was a source of shame to these comrades.

Suddenly, the door chimed. "Come in," Yanaev called.

Pugo and Kryuchkov entered one after the other. "Everything is arranged, General Secretary Yanaev," they reported. "Security has been tightened to the highest level."

"Good," Yanaev replied, then turned to Pugo. "What about the safety measures for the foreign leaders? If anything happens during the parade, their security must come first. Do you understand?"

"There will be no accidents," Pugo said firmly. Then, hesitating, he added, "But General Secretary, I've never seen you so worried. Is there something about this parade troubling you?"

"Nothing," Yanaev said slowly, gazing out the Kremlin window at the colorful flags fluttering in the wind. "I'm just feeling emotional. I miss the once-glorious Soviet Union. It was like a proud, arrogant king ruling over millions. Not like now—dressed in splendor but rotten inside. It would take only the slightest shock for it to crumble completely."

"But we survived the hardest times, didn't we?" Kryuchkov said. "Everyone thought the Soviet Union would collapse after the August 19 coup, but it survived. It remains one of the world's few superpowers. Isn't that thanks to you, General Secretary? We've suffered setbacks, yes, but the Soviet Union will not fall. We will grow stronger."

"I believe that too," Yanaev said with a faint smile, determined not to seem sorrowful on this festive day. Composing himself, he said quietly, "Now, let us go to Red Square. It is time to review the troops and face the people's gaze."

Red Square was immaculate, prepared to welcome the arriving army. The bright blue sky contrasted sharply with the Kremlin's crimson walls. Crowds had gathered eagerly, awaiting the military display.

Veterans of the Great Patriotic War stood quietly among them. Some had endured the bitter cold of Red Square in November 1941, waiting for the call to arms amidst brutal German artillery fire. They had marched relentlessly into Berlin, witnessing the victory flag hoisted atop the Reichstag.

Proud of their motherland's strength, these veterans had lost so much to the war—loved ones, youth, peace—but the great motherland had spared them further loss.

For Vasily, it was his first grand military parade. A humble man from a small country village, he gazed upon the solemn and dignified Red Square, memories flooding back. His voice cracked with emotion as he whispered, "Do you see it, comrades? This is the mighty motherland you fought for."

Before the parade began, Vasily, leaning on his cane and supported by others, made his way to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Alexander Garden, just outside the Kremlin's red walls. Built in 1967 on the eve of Victory Day, the mausoleum faced north, its dark red marble gleaming under the sun. To the west, bronze sculptures of helmets and military banners stood in simple yet solemn detail.

In front of the tomb burned a convex five-pointed star-shaped eternal flame, lit the day the monument was unveiled, never once extinguished. It symbolized the enduring spirit of the martyrs who gave their lives for the motherland.

Vasily placed a bouquet of pristine white flowers before the tombstone, his heart heavy with memories of comrades who had fought in the trenches. Through tear-filled eyes, he seemed to relive the endless artillery fire and the relentless footsteps of those who never stopped advancing.

"Dear comrades," he whispered, "after so many years, I finally see you again. Though I don't know where your bodies rest beneath this earth, I know your souls gather here and will never disperse. This bouquet is for you, here at this sacred place."

What stood before Vasily was no cold tombstone, but an immortal monument built with the blood and souls of countless heroes. Their heroic spirit still gripped steel guns, guarding every inch of the motherland, unwavering through wind and sun, forever standing watch.

Because the Red Square military parade was about to begin, the Alexander Garden felt unusually still and quiet. Only the eternal flame flickered and danced softly, as if Vasily's old comrades-in-arms were beside him once more—whispering, talking, and laughing in the gentle breeze.

"Thank you, great martyrs," Vasily whispered solemnly. "It is your selfless sacrifice that has brought prosperity to our great motherland. Your deeds will be remembered forever by the world."

The peaceful silence of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was broken by the soft footsteps of a young girl. She appeared quietly next to Vasily, laying a fresh bouquet of flowers beside the others.

She had come with her father from Volgograd to attend the annual commemoration. Her father had often told her heroic stories from the Great Patriotic War, filling her with pride and admiration. Now, standing before the tomb, she declared with innocent conviction, "When I grow up, I want to be like those heroes. I want to carry on their will and defend our great country."

Vasily gently stroked the smooth marble of the tombstone. Its surface reflected his weathered, gray-haired face alongside the youthful faces of soldiers in helmets—an illusion that had haunted him all these years. Those comrades had died in the bitter winter of 1941, yet their ageless faces remained forever engraved in stone.

"Look," Vasily said softly, "isn't this the grand motherland you dreamed of seeing? Our blood and flesh have built a stable, strong country. The people will always remember you—just as they remember the sacrifices of the martyrs of the October Revolution. Your great deeds will never be forgotten, and your spirit will live on forever."

As he finished speaking, a sudden breeze stirred the quiet garden. The green pines on either side swayed, their branches knocking gently together like waves, as if the fallen heroes were answering his words.

"Grandpa, who are you talking to?" the little girl asked in a timid, childish voice, startled by his murmurs. Her father was nowhere nearby, so she had quietly approached Vasily, seeking an explanation.

"The people on the tombstone," Vasily said, his eyes misty but serious.

The girl gazed at the smooth marble for a long moment, just as Vasily had done. But she saw nothing extraordinary. Shaking her head, she pointed at the tomb and said, "You're lying. There's no one there—just our reflections."

Vasily smiled gently. "Little one, of course you can't see them. Only I can. They are all great heroes."

He looked once more at the fading faces etched in stone and whispered to himself, "They live forever in our hearts."

Because the Red Square military parade was about to begin, the Alexander Garden felt unusually still and quiet. Only the eternal flame flickered and danced softly, as if Vasily's old comrades-in-arms were beside him once more—whispering, talking, and laughing in the gentle breeze.

"Thank you, great martyrs," Vasily whispered solemnly. "It is your selfless sacrifice that has brought prosperity to our great motherland. Your deeds will be remembered forever by the world."

The peaceful silence of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier was broken by the soft footsteps of a young girl. She appeared quietly next to Vasily, laying a fresh bouquet of flowers beside the others.

She had come with her father from Volgograd to attend the annual commemoration. Her father had often told her heroic stories from the Great Patriotic War, filling her with pride and admiration. Now, standing before the tomb, she declared with innocent conviction, "When I grow up, I want to be like those heroes. I want to carry on their will and defend our great country."

Vasily gently stroked the smooth marble of the tombstone. Its surface reflected his weathered, gray-haired face alongside the youthful faces of soldiers in helmets—an illusion that had haunted him all these years. Those comrades had died in the bitter winter of 1941, yet their ageless faces remained forever engraved in stone.

"Look," Vasily said softly, "isn't this the grand motherland you dreamed of seeing? Our blood and flesh have built a stable, strong country. The people will always remember you—just as they remember the sacrifices of the martyrs of the October Revolution. Your great deeds will never be forgotten, and your spirit will live on forever."

As he finished speaking, a sudden breeze stirred the quiet garden. The green pines on either side swayed, their branches knocking gently together like waves, as if the fallen heroes were answering his words.

"Grandpa, who are you talking to?" the little girl asked in a timid, childish voice, startled by his murmurs. Her father was nowhere nearby, so she had quietly approached Vasily, seeking an explanation.

"The people on the tombstone," Vasily said, his eyes misty but serious.

The girl gazed at the smooth marble for a long moment, just as Vasily had done. But she saw nothing extraordinary. Shaking her head, she pointed at the tomb and said, "You're lying. There's no one there—just our reflections."

Vasily smiled gently. "Little one, of course you can't see them. Only I can. They are all great heroes."

He looked once more at the fading faces etched in stone and whispered to himself, "They live forever in our hearts."